


i'm hopelessly hopeful (you're just hopeless enough)

by mildlyobsessive



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Like, Overdosing, POV Third Person Omniscient, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, but it's, happy-ish ending, just read it, weird 3rd person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlyobsessive/pseuds/mildlyobsessive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hospital smelled like chemicals, artificial cleanliness manufactured to mask the stink of disease and death.  And as Patrick burst into the waiting room, still in his pajamas, the only thought in his mind was that Pete would not be just another corpse adding to that covered-up smell, <em>no</em>, he wouldn't, Patrick wouldn't let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm hopelessly hopeful (you're just hopeless enough)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even think I like this but whatever

It's funny, really, how much can be changed in a moment. An entire life turned on its head because of one person. Or, more specifically, in Patrick's case, one best friend with a sick brain and a bit too much Ativan. It was the butterfly effect in, well, effect. How one little, seemingly irrelevant incident could cause everything to come crashing down, could destroy lives later on. For instance, a little boy being told by the big scary psychiatrist that his very mind was plotting against him. Or, if you felt like going even farther back in Pete Wentz's timeline, his very birth, where God up in heaven looked down at what he had made and went "You know what? I'm going to make this kid's life a living hell." So, really, Patrick felt that pointing fingers at the man upstairs was probably his best option.

Patrick almost hadn't answer the phone

Come on, who the hell calls at three am anyway? Vampire telemarketers? Or, you know, drunk friends, which besides just being more plausible, was what Patrick had been expecting his unnecessary wake up call to be. But it was Andy, and he could tell from the shaky way the drummer forced a hello that something was very, very wrong.

He was already half way out of bed and fumbling for a light when Andy spoke up. "Trick, you need to get to the hospital."

"What happened?" Patrick snapped, albeit a tad abruptly. But the pit in his stomach was only growing exponentially with every word that left Andy's mouth, and he was starting to feel the onset of panic, so, yes, he had snapped. Sue him. 

Andy's voice was choked with tears, and Patrick could hear someone in the background, telling him to get it together or so help me God. "It's Pete, oh, God, Pat, I'm so sorry, it's Pete."

The words were cracked and disjointed, thrown together like jigsaw pieces that didn't quite fit. But Patrick suddenly knew exactly what was going on, and _God_ , he wished he was still asleep, still removed from reality, living in a fictitious world where this wasn't happening, couldn't be happening. "Andy, please tell me he didn't. No, he wouldn't have. He wouldn't try to leave me. To leave all of us. No." And Patrick could hear how pathetic he sounded, how unconvincing he was even to his own two ears, because, deep down, he knew that Pete _would_.

And Andy seconded that with a barely audible "But he did, Trick."

Patrick didn't remember if he hung up, didn't even recall grabbing his keys, but suddenly he was slamming his car door, the ignition revving up. And he was speeding down the street, in what could only be described as obscenely past the speed limit, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered, because _Pete_. His best friend's name chanted in his head like a mantra of sorts, and it was the only thing keeping him holding that pedal to the floor, the sole reason signs and buildings and lights were rushing past him in a blurry, indistinguishable fog of fear. Because Pete would be okay, he simply had to be, and Patrick had to see it for himself.

…

The hospital smelled like chemicals, artificial cleanliness manufactured to mask the stink of disease and death. And, as Patrick burst into the waiting room, still in his pajamas, the only thought in his mind was that Pete would not be just another corpse adding to that covered-up smell, _no_ , he wouldn't, Patrick wouldn't let him. 

Joe and Andy rushed to him, helped him into a chair, said all the kind and comforting words they were supposed to, but Patrick could only ask "Is he alive?"

Joe ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly exhausted. "They've got him stabilized. The doctor thinks he's going to pull through."

Patrick drew a breath, long and shuddering, the first real one, he thought, since that phone had begun to ring. "How did-" his voice cracked "how did he do it?"

The silence in the small room was punctured only by CNN playing on the flat screen behind them. Finally, Andy took a deep breath. "Ativan overdose. Took the entire bottle in some Best Buy parking lot. A fucking _Best Buy_."

Joe piped in with "No note, no goodbye, no _anything_. That absolute bastard. He called the goddamn _manager_ , of all people. Jesus, I could kill him myself."

Patrick stood, legs shaking as if they weren't quite sure they could handle the strain right at the moment. "Can I see him?"

Andy shook his head. "He's still out of it, and at the moment it's family onl-"

Oh, _hell_ no.

" _Bullshit!_ " Patrick screeched, and the entire waiting room froze. "Bullshit. _We're_ his family, he almost fucking died and _I. Am. Going. To. See. Him."_

Andy just pulled himself out of his chair, tattooed arms quivering in a way that was somehow barely noticeable and profoundly sad at the same time, squared himself towards Patrick, and said "I'll go talk to the doctor."

Patrick collapsed back into his abandoned seat, his hands tearing through his hair in a way that reminded Joe of a child pinching themselves to wake up from their nightmares. "Oh, fuck, _Pete_ ," Patrick whispered. "What the hell are we going to do?"

Joe was shit at comforting people, and he knew it. But it wasn't like he had much of an option, so he tentatively touched Patrick's shoulder, though his hands were shaking so bad that he didn't think it would do much good. "He's gonna be okay, Trick."

Patrick sounded like he was about to implode in on himself, maybe just self destruct in the ICU waiting room, when he whispered. "I don't think anything's going to be okay for a while."

…

Pete's first word when he woke up was "shit." Eloquent, not exactly. But it sure as hell summed up what he was feeling, staring up at the faces of his three bandmates, with their facial expressions ranging from relieved to sad to very, very pissed off.

"You're awake," Patrick choked out, in a dry voice that resided somewhere between a question and a statement. 

"I guess I am," Pete whispered. "I'm gonna be honest here, that wasn't exactly the plan."

Looking back, Pete figured that he deserved Joe punching him in the face. But at the time, with a bloody lip added to the ache in his stomach (a goodbye present from that damned bottle of pills), he was nothing save angry.

"What the _fuck_ , Troh!"

But Joe simply wasn't having it. "You . . . you son of a bitch! You just decide to check out, just like that? Like it was nothing? Like _we_ were nothing, Pete?! I could . . . I could . . ." And Joe was crying now, the first time any of them had seen it happen, and it was in that moment that Pete realized just how badly he had fucked up.

And so Pete did the only thing he knew how to in this situation, uttered the phrase that had been drilled into his head by parents and teachers whenever he had done something wrong. "I'm sorry." It was nowhere near big enough, and it no way changed the fact that Pete still wished that the Ativan had done its job faster, but it was something. It was a start.

…

Patrick didn't find himself alone with Pete for another twelve hours, until Joe and Andy finally made a coffee run. The silence was beyond awkward in the miniscule hospital room, and Patrick found himself focusing on the IV in Pete's arm, the ugly paisley print of the curtains, anything other than his best friend's face. Because Pete was waiting for the screaming and the accusations, and Patrick knew that, but, quite frankly, the younger one didn't have the energy for it.

So there they sat, until Patrick finally gritted his teeth and asked the question everyone wanted answered. "Why did you do it?"

Pete shrugged. "I don't know, really. Nothing was wrong, but everything was _wrong_ , you know? And my head just wouldn't shut up, and I just stopped giving shit, I guess."

"You could have talked to me, Pete. Or Andy, or Joe, or _anyone_."

"Have you ever thought that maybe I'm tired of being the fuck up, Patrick?"

And it went silent. Again.

"What?" Patrick's voice was small.

"You're the healthy ones, and I'm the special child. I'm tired of being treated like I'm going to explode any moment, Trick, cause I'm not. Explosions hurt people, and I don't want to do that. This was just a self destruction, that's it. I was trying to get rid of the problem, but you all had to _stop me_."

Patrick flung himself on Pete, arms wrapped around his chest like Patrick fancied himself a life preserver. "You're not the problem," he whispered. "We need you here, please. Don't try this again, Pete, _fuck_ , never try this again. Swear you won't."

"I don't like making promises I don't know if I can keep, Trick."

"Then try, Pete. For the love of God, _try_."

And in that borderline claustrophobic hospital room, with a full grown man laying on top of him, Pete Wentz thought that maybe he could do that, at the very least.


End file.
